


tightened my belt around my hips (where your hands were missing)

by sarapod (four_right_chords)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Break Up, F/M, Homophobia, Internalized Biphobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/four_right_chords/pseuds/sarapod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting dumped by Jonny is sort of like being in a hit-and-run: Patrick doesn’t see it coming and by the time he can react it’s over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tightened my belt around my hips (where your hands were missing)

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the happy fic you're looking for.
> 
> On the other hand, this fic only exists because I wanted to write a scene where two characters who've broken up have sex at one of their weddings to another person - like, right before one of 'em walks up the aisle - and neither that scene nor anything like it found a home in the final version of this fic. So, you know. It could have been worse.
> 
> A million thanks to [coggs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coggs/pseuds/coggs) for beta-ing and success-bullying this thing into existence, and to MB, who gave a detailed and enthusiastic beta for a fic in a fandom she's not remotely part of. 
> 
> Title is from Ani DiFranco's "Fire Door."
> 
> VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: This was written and published well before the Kane rape allegations and subsequent shit show. I am choosing to leave my Kane-centric fic up. I'm proud of the work, and I feel a near-total separation between the character generated by fandom based on Patrick Kane and actual Patrick Kane, who is almost certainly a douchebag rapist. That said, I strongly believe that Kane is almost certainly a douchebag rapist. The fact that I wrote about him, and chose to leave published the fic I wrote about him, should by no means be taken as an endorsement of him, his actions, or his douchebag rapist ways.

Getting dumped by Jonny is sort of like being in a hit-and-run.

They’re lying in bed when it happens. Pat’s letting a comfortable heaviness settle in his limbs, and trying his damndest not to let the weird vibes rolling off Jonny fuck with his post-orgasm mellow. Jonny’s actually been acting weird for a couple days, but Patrick learned pretty early on in their friendship that responding every time Jonny acted weird meant being in a constant state of high alert and getting smacked down for it nine times out of ten. So Patrick’s taken to ignoring Jonny’s stupid moods until they either become too obnoxious to be ignored or Jonny opens his stupid mouth to talk about them. Usually it’s the first one, or they go away on their own. Patrick loves when they go away on their own.

So that’s what Patrick’s doing, and he’s complimenting himself on being all emotionally mature and shit when he feels the mattress shift, realizes Jonny’s sitting up, and hears, “Pat.” 

Patrick turns to see that Jonny’s sitting up on the edge of the bed and he’s put his underwear back on. Patrick has just enough time to notice it before Jonny says, “I can’t - we can’t do this anymore.”

Patrick sits up on his elbows, not sure he understands what he’s hearing. Jonny’s looking for his jeans when Patrick gets himself together enough to say, “Hey, no. What the fuck? Jonny?” Jonny just keeps getting dressed. He won’t look at Patrick, and Patrick’s getting pissed. “What the fuck, fucking - _Jonny_.” He grabs Jonny’s arm as he passes, stops him in his tracks, and makes eye contact with the side of Jonny’s head since Jonny won’t meet Patrick’s eyes. 

Patrick isn’t sure what to do. “I thought,” he starts. Stops. Starts again. “This has been ... I thought it’s been good?” 

Jonny’s arm in his hand is tense. “It has,” he says, voice raw. “It’s been fucking … “ He finally turns and looks at Patrick, and the expression on his face is wrecked, and Patrick feels his stomach drop. “It’s been fucking amazing, Patrick,” he whispers. “And I can’t. Anymore.” He pulls away. Patrick lets his arm fall. “I need to go,” he says, and Jonny fucking _flees_.

* * *

Patrick wakes up the next day and feels good for all of thirty seconds before last night comes rushing back in all its glory. He takes a second to wallow before rolling over and checking his phone and oh, fuck.

After Jonny’d left Patrick’s condo like his ass was on fire, Patrick had texted Jonny a fucking novel about Jonny’s inability to communicate, featuring a discussion of what a dick move it was to fuck, dump, and run. It included the sentence “I just watched you run away from me with your come dripping out of my ass,” which Patrick had at the time thought was a vicious condemnation of Jonny’s ability to deal with feelings but in the cold light of morning just sounds desperate. He hasn’t gotten a response to any of it.

Patrick rubs his hands over his face and gets out of bed. He’s got morning skate in a fucking hour. He can worry about Jonny later.

Things don’t get better at morning skate. It’s like a wall went up between them while Patrick was sleeping ( _and texting_ , says the voice in his head that exists to remind him of his flaws and mistakes - and which has taken to sounding unsettlingly like Jonny - _don’t forget the texting_ ). Jonny doesn’t look at him, doesn’t talk to him, doesn’t even acknowledge him if it’s not about what’s happening on the ice. 

There, everything is the same. Jonny still looks for Patrick like Patrick is true north, but the minute they head back to the locker room Patrick’s stonewalled. He’s overwhelmed and confused enough by Jonny’s behavior that he bolts as soon as he’s showered and has his clothes on, ignoring Sharpy yelling “Peeks!” at his rapidly retreating back.

* * *

Patrick’s known for sure that he was gay since he was 14, when he walked into the locker room in time to see one of the new guys strip off his street clothes and felt a bunch of things in his brain slot quietly into place. He’d looked at guys before, but never with much intent, and the few times he felt anything more than vague interest he pushed it down and held it there until it stopped squirming. But this was different. This feeling was clear and made itself known, and just like that, Patrick lost the ability to fight it. It was a Thursday, practice was about to start, and Patrick was gay. 

After that, he hooked up where he could - it’s not like organized sports lacked for curious guys up for having their dicks sucked - and mostly, things were okay. Patrick was good at finding guys who weren’t homophobic assholes, and the few times things seemed like they might be heading in a bad direction he was able to get himself out of the situation unscathed. He didn’t date, but neither did most of the straight guys on the team (or straight-seeming, he guessed; it’s not like he had “big ol’ gay” tattooed on his forehead). Between trying to finish high school and playing hockey pre-professionally, no one had time to figure out girls or feelings, so Patrick’s situation wasn’t that different from the rest of the guys. And then he got drafted, and the only thing that mattered was making Chicago give a fuck about hockey again.

No matter what Jonny likes ( _liked_ ) to think, Patrick hadn’t wanted to fuck him from minute one. Patrick knew he wasn’t exactly god’s gift to the gays at 18, with hair he couldn’t manage no matter how hard he tried and a face still full of babyish curves, but Jonny was a straight-up dork. When Patrick first joined the Hawks, any thoughts he had left for sex were aimed at Sharpy’s very straight, very married ass. Pat wasn’t getting laid much, but it was okay. He was playing professional hockey. The rest could wait.

They grew up. They helped lead the team to the Cup in 2010, and Patrick spent a lot of time looking in the mirror during the playoffs trying to figure out who this vaguely adult-looking motherfucker with a beard was. He started noticing Jonny, too. It wasn’t like he meant to or anything, but Pat had eyes, okay? Jonny’d been walking around mostly naked in front of him for as long as they’d known each other, giving Pat a front row seat while Jonny grew into his ridiculous ass and stupid arms. Pat was only human.

He did his damnedest to focus on Jonny’s dorky face, but when he grew a shaggy, mutton-chopped disaster of a playoff beard that, in its awful way, _worked_ for him, Pat was forced to admit that Jonny’s face maybe wasn’t as dorky as he’d been forcing himself to believe. The disaster beard made him him look more grown up, even if the grown-up he looked like didn’t know how to shave. But it wasn’t like noticing meant anything. Jonny was his friend, and as far as Patrick knew, Jonny was straight. 

Then Jonny got concussed, and everything changed.

Pat finds out about the car accident when he gets a text from Jonny that reads “i’m ok, don’t worry.” Seeing as that’s the first Pat’s heard from Jonny all day, the text doesn’t exactly calm his mind. When Jonny doesn’t answer his phone, Pat goes nuclear and starts calling the coaching staff. By the time he finally gets through to Jonny and tells him he’s coming over, Pat’s gotten the run-down - drove into a pole, possible delayed effects of a concussion, Jonny’s “okay, but he’s not gonna be on the ice for awhile” - and he’s gone from worried straight into seething.

Jonny opens the door to his darkened apartment and it’s all Pat can do not to shove past him into the living room. As it is, he moves by Jonny with something less than his usual control, crosses his arms over his chest and says, “How long?”

Jonny closes the door and turns to face Pat, hands in the pockets of his sweats. “Pat, I don’t really feel like - ”

“ _How long,_ Jon?” Pat asks. Jonny’s been hiding a _head injury._ The amount of his shit Pat is currently prepared to put up with is solidly less than zero.

Jonny walks past Pat into the living room. “Couple weeks,” he mutters, and that is - 

“ _Weeks?!_ ” Pat doesn’t yell, because concussion, but he’s definitely not quiet.

“Yeah,” Jonny says, and he sounds tired but stubborn as ever. “And I’ve already heard it from the coaches, training staff, team doctors and my mother, so can we not, please?” He looks up then, and he just looks so fucking beat that Pat, for once, is willing to let it go. There’s a quiet voice in the back of his head saying something about how needy Jonny looks, and while Pat may pretend to be good at ignoring that voice, there’s only so far he can lie to himself.

He does punch Jonny in the arm, once, hard, after sitting down next to him. “Don’t do this again, you fucking idiot,” he says. “We need you out there. I, um, I need you out there.”

Jonny turns to look at Pat. It puts his face really close to Pat’s. “Yeah?” he asks.

Pat smacks his thigh and says, “Don’t get used to it.” If Jonny curls a little closer than usual, well, Pat won’t notice it if Jonny doesn’t.

With so much on his plate with Jonny out of commission, Pat chooses not to look too closely at how much he misses Jonny both on and off the ice.The only thing he has time for, he keeps telling himself, is the team. He tries to see Jonny as much as he can, though, and Jonny seems genuinely pleased every time Patrick’s on the other side of his door. It isn’t like Jonny is his _responsibility_ \- Patrick has enough of that as it is - but it seems to make him smile more than usual to see Pat and make fun of Pat’s shitty play at center. Which, fuck him, maybe if he hadn’t _hidden a head injury_ Pat wouldn’t have to play a position he clearly isn’t cut out for. 

“It’s about anticipation,” Jonny says one afternoon, crouched low over his living room floor, stick in his hand and a tennis ball balanced against the blade. “Everyone’s got tells, you know? Even fucking Bergeron.” 

“I fuckin’ _know,_ ” Pat whines, and kicks out at the stick in Jonny’s hands. “‘Everyone has tells, learn to read them and move first, just use your speed for face-offs instead of dekeing around d-men,’ dude, you give me this lecture basically every time I’m over here.” 

Jonny frowns and says, “I just want you to - ”

“Be the best I can be,” Pat finishes. “I _know_ , Jonny.” He reaches over, covers Jonny’s hand with his own while taking away the stick with the other. “I know. But right now can we just watch a movie or something?”

Jonny sighs, but he lets Pat pull him over to the couch while Pat finds something they can watch with the captions on and the brightness turned down as far as it’ll go. Jonny’s leaning against Pat by the end of the first hour. Pat very quietly lets himself enjoy it. 

Pat does his damnedest not to get feelings all over the place during what remains of their season, but Jonny doesn’t seem concerned. The attentiveness and affection he started to show Pat while he was concussed don’t disappear after he’s cleared for contact. If anything, they increase, particularly after their disastrous playoff loss to the ‘Yotes. When Pat decides to cope with the shitshow that is 2012 by drinking all the beer in two U.S. cities, Jonny’s the first person to get in touch, reaching out before Patrick has even finished his epic bender. The text is short, saying simply:

_watch urself kaner. assholes with cameras r everywhere. call me if u need nething._

It made Patrick inexplicably warm inside to know Jonny gave a fuck. 

Afterwards, when everything was on Deadspin and he’d been chastised by management, Q, Brisson, and everyone in his immediate family, Jonny let Patrick hole up with him at his condo in Chicago for a few weeks, hiding from everyone he’d disappointed and any press who still cared. It isn’t a big deal or anything, Patrick keeps telling himself. It’s just what friends do. When Jonny meets him at the airport with a large coffee just the way he likes it, it’s him being a good friend. The long, tight hug he pulls Patrick into over the center console is a friendly hug. And the looks he’s shooting Patrick in between all the times he’s yelling at him (rants that always boil down, in one form or another, to “be better, asshole”) are just to make sure Patrick’s paying attention. 

Patrick wasn’t gonna overthink Jonny’s new behavior or his own steadily growing feelings. Jonny was being weird. Patrick was pining. It was fine. When he slunk back to Buffalo, he very generously allowed himself a few days to panic before acknowledging that, yeah, his best friend seemed to be a little bit into him. But Patrick wasn’t sure if _Jonny’d_ figured out that he was into Patrick, so it didn’t matter. Right? Right. That, Patrick decided, was his story, and he was sticking to it. 

When the lockout hits and Patrick goes to Biel, Jonny gets weirder. His usual stream of text messages keeps up like normal, but they start to be interspersed with a new kind of message: sent at night, completely misspelled, and saying things like _i wish u were hree, thsi sucks nd i think seabs is sick of lsitening to me whine_. For Jonny, these are the equivalent of whispered late-night confessions. But Patrick’s completely not prepared for it when he receives, time stamped 3 AM Chicago time, _r u having more fun w sgiuen than here? miss u, come home._

Patrick’s pretty sure that even Jonny can’t be that emotionally obtuse.

So it isn’t exactly a shocker when Patrick comes back from Switzerland to even more heavy looks and unnecessary touching from Jonny. But with the shortened season and the pressure Patrick feels to rebuild his reputation stateside after Boston and Madison, he doesn’t have any extra energy to invest in Jonny’s pseudo-flirtation. He tries to flirt back, sometimes, but he’s more than used to shoving complicated feelings to the back of his mind when they threaten to interfere with hockey. And the Hawks are playing some pretty fucking spectacular hockey. 

It almost comes spilling out on the ice after they win. Jonny looks totally done when Pat grabs him, all his walls down, and Pat’s not thinking when he yells, “I love you, Jonny! Way to step up big!” He feels Jonny’s fingers tighten in his sweater, and yeah. Yeah. This is happening. When they give him the Conn Smythe and Jonny skates out to hug him, grinning like the idiot he is, Pat sees it all over his face, is shocked that no one else seems to. It’s such a fucking relief to know this is finally for real that Pat almost doesn’t give a fuck who knows.

He’s not an idiot, though, and neither’s Jonny. It isn’t until they get the Cup safely back to Chicago that Jonny finally kisses him, eyes alcohol-bright and a genuine, ridiculous smile on his ridiculous face. It’s something like 6:30 in the morning, they haven’t slept yet, and they’ve just gotten out of the cab back from Harry Carey’s - a cab ride during which Jonny didn’t move his arm from around Pat’s waist, not for one second, not even when he had to pay the driver and sign the receipt lefty, followed by a walk up to Jonny’s condo where the closeness of their bodies could very easily be excused by how hammered Jonny appeared to be. When the door snicks quietly closed behind Pat, Jonny turns to face him and he looks so fucking _happy_ that Pat’s heart clenches.

“We fucking did it,” he says, grinning, hand brushing over the business-on-top of Patrick’s hideous playoff mullet to tangle his fingers in the party-in-the-back. “Patrick,” he whispers, and tilts Pat’s head up to finally, finally fucking kiss him. 

Even knowing it’s coming doesn’t prepare Pat for the reality of Jonny’s mouth on his after years of quietly wanting. It’s actually a pretty shitty kiss, all told. Both of their mouths taste like fifteen kinds of stale alcohol, their beards are sticky with champagne, and they basically reek. But Pat can’t care. It’s Jonny, finally, Jonny’s muscles under his hands and Jonny’s tongue in his mouth. It’s fucking perfect.

They spend the next several days tearing it up and getting photographed all over the city, then coming home and having a very different kind of celebration. It turns out Jonny is actually pretty shy in bed. On their first night together (which is the night after their first kiss, because seriously, _6:30 in the morning_ ) he rolls over and away from Patrick’s hand when Patrick goes for his dick, but quickly presses his back into Patrick’s front and grabs his hand in a death grip that makes Pat feel slightly better about the rejection. “I, uh,” Jonny starts, then stops. 

Pat reaches his other hand around Jonny’s shoulder and pulls him closer. “What’s up, babe?” he asks, still quietly marveling that he gets to hold Jonny like this, call him that, feel Jonny’s fingers between his own.

“I’ve never done this with a guy,” Jonny mutters (to Pat’s utter delight, which he keeps a lid on because he’s not a dick, but only just). “And I’m. Kind of …. ” He trails off, huffing out a breath in frustration.

Patrick cuts him off with a kiss to the back of his neck and another to the side, at a spot he’s already learned makes Jonny gasp. “Whatever you want,” he says, in between kisses. “We can take it slow as you want.”

As slow as Jonny wants turns out to be pretty fucking slow, in Pat’s opinion. Jonny lets Pat blow him after a couple days, but Pat doesn’t get Jonny’s mouth on his dick until the night before Jonny’s leaving for his trip to Italy. The look on Jonny’s face as he makes his way down Patrick’s body is less sexy and more resolute, and Patrick stops him, “Hey.” Jonny looks up at him with that same expression - which is unfortunately really fucking hot, because Jonny’s face is stupid and unfair - and Pat swallows, curses on the inside, and says, “Babe, it’s okay. You don’t have to.”

Jonny shakes his head slightly and says, “I want to. I just - I want to, okay?” And he moves back down, bites lightly at the thin skin over Patrick’s hip, and takes Patrick in his mouth through - as far as Patrick can tell - the power of sheer determination.

Jonny’s doing a pretty good job, actually, using his tongue and playing with Pat’s balls and generally demonstrating that he’s paid attention to the blowjobs he’s received throughout his life, when he hits some combination of _something_ that makes Patrick curse and arch, shoving his dick deeper into Jonny’s mouth. Jonny jerks his head up and Patrick immediately starts babbling apologies, but the words die pretty quickly when he sees the look on Jonny’s face. Jonny looks like he’s just figured something out, like he _gets_ something that he didn’t before, and he falls back onto Patrick’s cock with no more skill than before but a hell of a lot more enthusiasm. He swallows when Patrick comes, and when he moves back up the bed and lays next to Pat, Pat can feel Jonny hard against his hip.

Patrick wraps his arm around Jonny’s shoulders and grins hard at the ceiling. Jonny likes giving head. That’s information Patrick can use.

“Was it good?” Jonny asks, almost shy, and Pat rolls over and kisses him.

“Yeah, dumbass,” he says, laughing. “Yes.”

Jonny left for Italy the next day, and that was the last time they were going to see each other until convention. When Pat had asked about visiting, Jonny said it would be too hard to fit in between his trip and their Cup days and convention, and Pat just sort of shrugged and went with it. This thing between them was still so new. He was okay if Jonny wanted space to process, or fish, or process via fishing. Whatever his Canadian sensibilities needed. 

When convention finally arrives, it’s a blur of making nice with fans while trying not to stare too hard at Jonny’s ass in his dress pants. They don’t actually have a chance to get together beforehand, so the first time Patrick sees Jonny in a month is in a room full of strangers. Doing the Kaner shuffle on stage, getting up behind Jonny and making him smile in front of a thousand people, is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. On the one hand, Pat’s making Jonny laugh and everyone can see it, can see that he can do that. On the other, it feels like shouting, “Hey, I’m beyond fucked up and stupid for this guy” at the top of his lungs in the middle of the room.

Pat fucks Jonny for the first time that night. He already knows Jonny’s easy for having his ass played with, having gone ahead and turned a blow job into a rim job at the beginning of summer just to see how it would work out. He was rewarded by a whole new kind of sound from Jonny, and when he took the reaction as license to lube up and see how Jonny liked getting fingered, the answer was pretty clearly “a whole lot.” They talked about it during the month apart - or, Pat talked while Jonny just sat there listening, grinning quietly, biting his lip in that way that made Patrick want to punch himself in the face just to have something else to focus on - and determined that, yeah, Jonny would be into getting fucked. 

Now he’s got Jonny on his back with his hands hooked behind his knees to give Pat room to work while Pat rims and fingers him, and it’s basically the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Jonny’s head is dug into the pillows and he’s making all kinds of awesome noises, and Pat’s pretty sure he could do this forever. But his dick reminds him that he’s on a mission, here, and he reaches up and gently rubs Jonny’s leg. 

“Hey,” he says, and Jonny looks up, and wow, his face is a whole other thing that Pat can’t even deal with right now. “Turn over,” Pat says. “Easier your first time.” 

Jonny looks hesitant, and Pat presses a kiss to his stomach. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ve got you. You say we’re done, we’re done.”

Jonny sort of nods and turns over, drawing his knees up under him, and Pat goes back to fingering him and listening to the awesome noises he makes. When he (fucking finally) rocks into Jonny, though, he can’t help wondering what the people in that huge conference room would think if they could see him behind Jonny now. 

Pat tries and fails not to count down the days until Jonny comes back to Chicago after convention. Jonny’s still weirdly opposed to visiting each other, and Pat’s still willing to go with it but isn’t going to pretend it doesn’t suck. When Jonny finally (finally, _finally_ ) shows up at Patrick’s door, Patrick greets him with burgers and cake shakes from Portillo’s and a lengthy, enthusiastic blow job he barely lets Jonny get to the bedroom for. He may or may not cuddle up to Jonny’s back later that night and whisper something about their lives finally being able to get started. He’s pretty sure Jonny’s asleep, anyway.

Three weeks later, Patrick watches Jonny run away from him and no longer has any idea which way is up.

* * *

A week passes. Jonny still isn’t talking to Patrick or looking at Patrick or acknowledging Patrick’s existence when it doesn’t directly pertain to hockey, and people are starting to notice. Sharpy asks Patrick about it, and he seems so genuinely concerned that it’s all Patrick can do to not fall apart as he shrugs and says he doesn’t know what Sharpy’s talking about. Seabs approaches him after practice one day and says, “Peeks, I have no idea what’s up with Tazer, but unless you killed his mother he’s being an asshole. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, okay?” Even Shawzy’s shooting Patrick uncomfortable looks in the locker room. 

So after weighing his options, he makes what he thinks is the very mature decision to get cleaned up as quickly as possible after morning skate, beat Jonny outside, and hide behind Jonny’s car.

He takes genuine pleasure in the squawk of surprise Jonny makes when Patrick shoots up from behind the passenger door. That pleasure gets just a little bit savage and a lot vindictive when he sees the fucking maelstrom of expressions crossing Jonny’s face. There’s startlement, excitement, panic, nervousness, and a second of what Pat thinks might be actual terror before he shuts everything down - Pat can actually watch this - slides on the meet-the-press face he’s been giving Pat all week, and says, “What do you want?”

Pat shakes his head and actually laughs, though there’s absolutely no humor behind it. “What do I want?” he says, leaning forward on the hood of Jonny’s car. “What do I want.” And for a second he actually considers being honest. What Patrick wants is for Jonny to tell him what the _fuck_ happened in Patrick’s bedroom a week ago, get his head out of his ass, and be Patrick’s again. Alternately, he wants Jonny to go fuck himself with a rusty rake, and that must be what shows on his face because while he’s considering what to say, Jonny looks at him and physically takes a step back from the car. 

But Patrick decides that honesty is, in this case, far from the best policy given the way Jonny’s been acting. So he goes for the simplest answer he has, and says, “I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, or why the fuck you decided it’s me, but everyone is _fucking noticing_.” He spits the last two words from between clenched teeth. “Seabs and Sharpy both pulled me aside to talk about my fucking _feelings_ , and I swear to god the kids are going to say something sooner rather than later, and - ” Patrick can feel himself getting more and more amped as he goes on, but Jonny … Jonny’s just standing there and taking it. 

Patrick slams his hands on the hood of the car, once. His wrist twinges. Jonny winces. “Just get your shit together,” Patrick finishes, and stalks off. He doesn’t look at Jonny as he goes.

He’s in his car and halfway home before he calms down enough to realize just how weird that was. Patrick has been fighting with Jonny since he was eighteen years old, and never once has Jonny not fought back. Jonny fights like arguing is oxygen, like if he doesn’t he’ll actually die. He gets angry and stays angry, and sometimes it’s stupid and ridiculous but it’s as much a part of who he is as that scar on his lip (which Patrick suddenly, and vividly, remembers licking, and fuck). The degree of fucked up Jonny must be to stand there and not say a word while Patrick yells at him … Patrick’s not sure he’s ready for that. 

Patrick, naturally, is 100% that fucked up, and wallowing in it. He misses Jonny like a limb. Patrick’s a fucking professional, so he’s still playing good hockey, but the minute he steps off the ice and has to deal with Jonny’s absence it’s like being dunked in cold water. As for the rest of it, the parts of Jonny Patrick was just starting to learn - his vulnerability, his sweetness, what he looks like when he’s not hiding anything - he mostly doesn’t let himself think about them, but at night, when he’s lying in bed trying to fall asleep, it’s harder to avoid remembering. It’s all sort of jumbled together for Patrick, sensations and images, and mostly it just makes him curl up in a ball and focus on his breathing until he falls asleep, images of the air moving in and out of his lungs the only thing he lets himself see.

Then Jonny walks into practice with a monster hickey under his left ear, and Patrick feels like his stomach might actually fall out of his body. 

The girl’s name is Tatiana. She’s 28 and Puerto Rican, born and raised in Humboldt Park. She met Jonny at a fundraiser and took him home the same night, and Jonny, by all appearances, is smitten. He blushes a lot. He grabs his phone the second it vibrates and always texts her back immediately. He won’t talk much about her even as he comes in with hickeys in increasingly creative locations (the one right on the meat of his ass would impress Patrick if Patrick hadn’t given Jonny a hickey in the exact same spot when they were fucking, so seeing Tatiana’s handiwork (toothwork?) mostly just makes him slightly ill), and it’s Locker Room 101 that the less you talk about someone, the more you like them.

Patrick hasn’t seen a picture yet, but he has no problem hating the image of her in his mind. It looks a little like Jennifer Lopez. Patrick’s never been fooled by the rocks that she got.

After Pat cornered him in the parking lot Jonny stopped being quite as much of a marble fucking statue where people could see, but it’s manufactured for the benefit of everyone around them and they both know it. The guys who can tell the difference between Pat and Jonny’s old vibe don’t talk much about it anymore; if anything, they’ve settled into the new normal. Also, the gossip mill has moved on to a betting pool over which part of Jonny’s body Tatiana’s going to get her teeth into next and whether she’s actually part hyena. Patrick’s glad he’s not part of the conversation anymore and has started thinking about how the fuck he’s gonna move on from the rubble that is his relationship with Jonny, both romantic and not, when he’s awakened one night around 2 AM by his phone ringing.

Patrick’s ready to curse whoever it is along with their mother and children, but he comes suddenly and completely awake when he sees the name on the display: Tazer. 

What. The fuck. 

Patrick answers, not remotely interested in being polite: “Jonny, what the fuck.”

“Pat? Patrick?” he hears, and oh god, Jonny is _hammered_. There’s a little bit of an echo on the line too, which doesn’t make it any easier to understand his drunk ass.

“Yeah,” he says.

Jonny exhales loudly. “Hi Pat.”

Pat feels like he stepped through the looking-glass, here. “... Hi Jonny,” he finally says. “Why the fuck are you calling me?” He doesn’t add _at 2 AM on a Saturday_ , because the fact of Jonny calling him is, at this point, incredible enough on its own.

“Miss you,” Jonny slurs. “Miss your .. miss your face. Miss your cock.” Jonny groans and Pat hears a distant thump. “Jesus, Pat, I miss you … so much.”

At this point Patrick physically moves the phone away from his ear and stares at it, because is this actually happening? Is Jonny drunk dialing him after not talking to him about anything other than hockey for almost two months _and talking dirty?_

He picks the phone back up when he hears a tinny “Pat? Pat, you … Pat?” 

“Yeah, Jonny,” he says. But he has no idea where to go from there, so he stops. 

“Jus’ … come open the door, Pat,” Jonny says, and Pat is confused until he realizes that what he thought was an echo on the line was the sound of Jonny’s voice coming through his front door matched to the sound of it in his ear.

When Pat opens the door, Jonny’s holding himself up on the door frame and he’s even more blitzed than Pat anticipated. He immediately pitches forward into Pat, head thunking against Pat’s shoulder. He clumsily wraps an arm around Pat’s waist and turns his head to press a kiss to Pat’s neck, but he misses and winds up sort of mouthing the collar of Pat’s pajama shirt. “Hi, hi Pat,” he mutters, and sort of nuzzles his face into Pat’s shoulder. 

Pat feels … he doesn’t know what he feels. His stomach is practically vibrating, and he’s sickeningly torn between being pathetically glad that Jonny still cares and genuinely disgusted by this mess that landed itself on his doorstep. The mess is currently trying to grope him through his boxers, though, and Pat’s feelings on sex when Jonny’s like _this_ are totally unambiguous. Even if Jonny could get it up, which Pat is positive he can’t, the sex would be shockingly bad. (That it would also leave Pat feeling used, empty, and even more fucked up than he is already gets resolutely pushed to the back of Pat’s mind.)

So Pat manages to get Jonny arranged along his side and orients them towards the living room, at which point Jonny sort of looks up, confusion all over his face, and says, “Where we goin’? Isn’t your room …” and he gestures over his shoulder, in the vague direction of Pat’s room.

Pat ignores him, all his energy focused on getting two hundred pounds of spectacularly-drunk-and-less-than-agile hockey player over to his couch without dropping him, or shoving him into (through?) the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Pat’s not proud of the fact that he’s turning Jonny down. He’s even less proud once he’s got Jonny on the stupid fucking couch they both have, blanket tucked over him and shoes off, and he finds himself sitting on his coffee table, staring at Jonny’s sleeping face and trying to figure out what the fuck is going on in Jonny’s head. He must sit there for half an hour before going back to his room and crashing out, sleeping fitfully and having shitty dreams.

When he wakes up, Jonny is gone. There’s a note in his place, written on the cover of Patrick’s ESPN magazine in black sharpie: _Sorry. Won’t happen again. -J.T._

It happens again a week later. This time, when Patrick wakes up the next morning, there’s no note on the couch, but the bag has been changed in the little garbage can Pat left by Jonny’s head. The third time it happens, Patrick has a plan. Once he gets Jonny installed on the couch, he makes a pot of coffee, turns his iPod as loud as it will go, and settles in to wait until Jonny gets up.

Patrick winds up drinking the entire pot of coffee (it’s terrible; Patrick makes terrible coffee; this is a fact of life, as true as the earth moving around the sun) and blasting the absolute shittiest, loudest album he has four times through before Jonny stirs. The room is dark, and Patrick is curled up in the La-Z-Boy across from the sofa, so it’s not entirely Jonny’s fault that he doesn’t see Patrick when he sits up, groans, drags a hand over his face and moves to put on his shoes.

When Patrick bites out, “Hey, asshole,” Jonny almost jumps out of his skin.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he snaps, then winces, “fuck. Fuck. I feel … ” He settles on a groan, then looks up, somehow managing to look abashed as he says, “I’ll go.” 

Pat’s on his feet before the sentence is fully out of Jonny’s mouth, shoving Jonny back onto his couch and sitting on his coffee table. “Fuck you you’ll go,” he says, three hours of waiting for Jonny to show signs of life having given him plenty of time to build up a healthy anger. “You don’t go fucking _anywhere_ until you give me some answers, fucker.”

Jonny stares, looks too tired and hungover - hell, Pat figures he’s probably still drunk - to do anything else. 

Pat stares back. When it’s clear that Jonny isn’t planning to speak any time soon, Pat rakes a hand through his hair in frustration and spits, “Why the fuck did you stop talking to me, why do you keep coming to my house drunk off your ass at stupid hours, why do you keep fucking _leaving_ , and why did you - ” Pat has to stop here, take a breath so he can get it out without his voice cracking, but he finishes, “why the _fuck_ did you break up with me?”

Jonny tips his head back into Pat’s couch cushions, eyes closed. “Fuck you,” he says flatly, but before Pat can gear up for a rant, he continues, “I’m in love with you.”

Pat feels like he’s been punched in the chest. He’s sure he looks like it, but Jonny’s eyes are still closed as he says, “I’ve been in love with you. I want you. But I’m the fucking captain of the fucking Stanley Cup-winning Chicago Blackhawks and I don’t give a fuck about You Can Play -” finally, Jonny’s eyes open, but he just looks tired as he says, “the day the fans accept a gay hockey player, let alone a captain …” 

He shakes his head. “I’m not risking my career. I’m not letting you risk your career. And I’m not fucking up the team. So. Tatiana.” He’s decent enough to make a face at his own behavior. “But I miss you. And sometimes it’s more tiring to fight it than to just … ” 

He shrugs eloquently. He looks miserable.

Pat’s completely fucking asea. He grabs ahold of the first thing his brain can latch on to: “Gay,” he says, eyes locked on Jonny’s face.

Jonny sort of waves a hand in the air between them. “Bi. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. If I’m with you, I’m gay. If I’m with her, I’m just … me.”

Pat sits with that for a second before asking, “Do you even like her?” 

Jonny shrugs. “I like her, yeah,” he says. “She’s gorgeous. She’s fun. She likes hockey. I could do worse.”

“Could _she_?” Pat snaps before he can stop himself.

Jonny physically winces away from Pat’s voice. “Don’t,” he whispers. “It’s not like I haven’t … just don’t, Pat.” He raises his hands, drops them. It’s weird. Pat’s reminded of how fucking drunk he probably still is. “She’s got her own shit, anyway,” he mutters. “It’s a better fit than you think.” He’s staring at Pat’s knees. 

Pat’s done. He’s heard enough about Jonny and he sure as shit has heard enough about Tatiana, and despite the fact that Jonny smells like a barroom floor, he’s still _Jonny_ , and he’s apparently in love with Pat. Pat is completely exhausted by all of this. He leans forward, grabs Jonny’s shoulder, and yanks him to his mouth.

Jonny makes a sound like he’s trying to talk. Pat puts a stop to it by grabbing the back of Jonny’s head and holding him in place. Jonny tastes like beer and liquor and awfulness and there’s absolutely no grace in it, but it’s only a few seconds before he’s lunging forward, knocking Pat sideways onto the table and sending the basket of remotes crashing to the floor. He kisses like he’s dying, way too much teeth, and he’s definitely not as drunk as Pat thought because Pat can feel him hard, rocking desperately against Pat’s hip. 

“Miss you so fucking much,” he gasps out in between objectively crappy kisses and bites to Patrick’s neck that are too sharp to feel good. Pat’s hard despite Jonny’s complete lack of finesse, getting off on the simple fact of Jonny’s body on top of his, Jonny’s muscles under his hands and Jonny’s cock rubbing against his. The stupid, dangerous words Jonny’s saying. “Fucking need you,” he’s whispering, mouth on Pat’s chest. He’d pushed Patrick’s hoodie up, not even bothering to take it off, and he’s stupidly tall enough that he can bite Pat’s chest without losing friction on his cock. “Love you,” he says, voice breaking, and that’s it, Patrick’s coming a second later. It feels like resignation. Jonny comes with Pat’s name in his mouth and Pat’s hands in his. 

Pat stares at his ceiling, feels Jonny breathing heavily on his chest, and doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t say anything when Jonny comes back to himself, levers himself off Pat and adjusts his pants, nose wrinkling at how gross his stupid black boxer-briefs must feel. Jonny looks at him then - meets Pat’s eyes for the first time that night - and says, “I’m just gonna - ” - jerks his thumb at Pat’s door, takes a step backward, and, basically, bolts. 

Pat listens to the door slam, feels the coffee table creak under him - it is almost certainly broken, they weigh almost four hundred pounds together and weren’t exactly holding still - and wishes he felt the way he had the last time Jonny walked out on him. Then, he hadn’t known what was going to happen next. Now all he feels is cavernously, yawningly empty.

* * *

The next time Jonny shows up, it’s just as late, but he’s sober. He doesn’t say anything, just walks in, pushes Pat onto the couch, drops to his knees and goes to town. The odds of Pat pushing him off are basically nonexistent and he knows it, he has to know it - but Pat can’t think, not with Jonny’s mouth around him and Jonny’s fingers in him. He comes with his hand clutching the back of Jonny’s skull. Jonny comes soon after, getting a hand on himself as quickly as possible after Pat finishes. His face is pressed to Pat’s thigh, and Pat can’t quite bring himself to stop stroking Jonny’s hair.

Jonny doesn’t move right away, resting against Pat’s leg, and Pat almost regrets it when he asks quietly, “Is this going to be a thing now?”

Jonny freezes, then leans back, sitting on his heels and doing up his pants. He’s not looking at Pat’s face, but staring straight ahead - at Pat’s dick, actually, which would have cracked Pat up when they were first fucking, what feels like a million years ago. 

“Do I - “ Jonny’s voice catches, and he stops. He visibly forces himself to meet Pat’s eyes, and he says, “Can it be?”

Pat doesn’t know what he expected to hear, but it wasn’t that. He sits back, processes. Finally, he starts, “You want to keep fucking me.”

Jonny’s looking at the ground now. “It’s … it’s hard to see you every day and not touch you,” he whispers.

Pat decides to blow right by that and continues. “But you don’t want to be with me.”

Jonny looks up, and his face is raw. “I want to. I _can’t_ ,” he says, and it sounds like a plea.

Patrick presses the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see stars, but when he removes them Jonny’s still there. “Can I ask you a question?” he says to the ceiling. “If you’re this fucked up about liking dudes, why did you even kiss me?” 

Jonny looks like he’d rather peel off his skin than answer, but Pat’s got all night. If there’s one thing this fiasco has taught him, it’s patience. Finally, Jonny says - so low Pat can barely hear - “I thought I could control it.”

Pat’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry?”

Jonny shifts miserably. “Wanting you. I thought … I thought if I just … “ He makes a stupid gesture, and finally spits out, “ _had_ you, I thought if I could just find out what it was like, it might … I wouldn’t have to think about it so much.” 

Pat snorts. “That’s not how feelings work, fucker.”

“Well, I know that now!” Jonny says, head snapping up with the first spark Patrick’s seen out of him off the ice in ages. “But I … you were all I could think about,” he says. “I didn’t see any other way to get over it.” 

Pat groans, then reorients himself so he’s laying on the couch, pressed into the back. “Come here, asshole,” he sighs. 

Jonny looks at him uncertainly, and Pat just kind of opens his arms a little, and then Jonny’s there, burrowing into Pat with his head tucked up under Pat’s chin. His arm is around Pat’s shoulder, his legs are tangled with Pat’s, and he’s - yeah, he’s basically clinging.

Pat runs his hand gently up and down Jonny’s back. And if he notices Jonny shuddering or feels his neck getting wet, well, that’s no one’s business but Jonny’s. Pat holds him close until his breathing regularizes and he’s sleeping tucked around Pat like a promise. 

The thing is, Pat’s had time to think about their situation despite the rapidly changing terrain. Losing Jonny had been bad, but the worst part by far had been not knowing why. Finding out that it was because Jonny had some seriously fucked up ideas about his own sexuality is an ache Pat’s not sure he’s going to get over any time soon, but it puts everything that happened in a very different light.

Pat’s never struggled too much with being gay. His family was always supportive, as were the few friends who knew. He never considered coming out after getting drafted, but mostly because it seemed completely unnecessary rather than out of any specific fear. He didn’t have a boyfriend or any intention of getting one, and he figured that he’d deal with the whole thing if that ever changed - no point stirring up shit if he didn’t have to. And yeah, coming out would probably be a weird and fucked up experience, but Pat’s not out of touch. He follows sports news very fucking closely. He knows how You Can Play’s caught on. He watched the Tim Hardaway controversy with barely-concealed excitement. He devoured every piece of coverage on Jason Collins he could find, knows exactly how that went. Patrick’s not fooling himself that it would be easy, but he’s pretty sure it would at least be _possible_.

Jonny, though … Jonny’s gone so far as to get himself a fucking _beard_ , which, Pat can’t even really process that. Jonny obviously, explicitly, thinks coming out is the worst thing that could happen to his career. And he’s right about one thing - if he’s with Pat, no one will give a fuck that he also likes women, or listen to him if he tries to explain that he does. In the eyes of the world, he’d be gay, and any attempts to keep the press from misrepresenting his identity would be laughed at - at best. Even if Jonny felt okay about his sexuality (which, put Pat in the “Skeptical” column for that one), Pat can sort of get how he might not want to try to parse it into a soundbite. 

But it’s more than that. Jonny’s not just unwilling to be public. He’s unwilling to commit to Pat _in private_. He’s so fucking committed to not committing to Pat that he was willing to give up on their entire friendship, and while Pat appreciates the backhanded compliment, he’d much rather have Jonny back and not wanting him than not have Jonny at all. But of course, Jonny’s too busy being repressed and self-denying for that. 

Pat’s still heartbroken, but when he thinks about it that way, he feels way worse for Jonny than he does for himself. At the end of the day, Pat’s okay with Pat. It’s pretty clear he can’t say the same for Jonny. And Pat’s not sure where it came from, the clear, deep sense of his own wrongness that rolls off Jonny every time they do this now (Pat hasn’t missed the fact that Jonny has barely let Pat touch him any of the times they’ve fucked since breaking up), but he’s starting to think that maybe this whole thing is bigger than he is. When Pat finally falls asleep, it’s with the knowledge that something’s gonna have to change.

It’s an off day the next day, they have nowhere to be, and Pat wakes up slowly to the knowledge that Jonny, incredibly, is still there. Pat doesn’t know how, isn’t going to ask questions, just pulls him closer with the arm wrapped around his back. Jonny pushes back into Pat’s arm, nuzzles his face deeper into Pat’s shoulder – and Pat feels the moment Jonny’s face scratches over Pat’s stubble and his entire body goes rigid. It’s nothing Pat wasn’t expecting, exactly, but it still feels like shit. Watching Jonny extricate himself and sit as far as possible on the opposite end of the couch is no better.

Jonny’s staring at him, and Pat decides to interpret his silence as permission. He hauls himself up to a sitting position and skips any lead-in, saying simply, “So I’m gonna come out.”

Jonny jerks back like he’s been hit, and Pat has no problem interpreting the expression on his face right now: pure fucking terror. “What,” he says, almost a whisper.

Pat doesn’t repeat himself. “I was thinking about it last night after you fell asleep. I never really thought about it before, but the timing’s sort of perfect right now. We just won our second Cup and I’m having a great fucking season.” He is. He’s third in the league in goals and second in points and he’s playing like his family will be killed if he doesn’t deliver every night. Amazing where a little heartbreak will get you.

“Pat,” Jonny whispers. “You can’t. Please. I … you can’t.”

Pat raises his eyebrows. “I can’t,” he says, no question in it. “Why?”

Jonny’s hands are shaking on his knees. “Please,” he says again. “I gave us up for you, so you wouldn’t have to … I gave up everything,” he says softly.

Pat quirks his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” he manages. “What the fuck? Last I heard you gave up everything because you were too chickenshit to be with me.”

Jonny sort of laughs and shakes his head and looks like he’s watching an execution. “You don’t fucking get it,” he says. “I left you because if I kept wanting you like I did I’d do something stupid and you’d lose your career, everything you ever worked for. I can’t … I can’t touch you, I can’t be with you, fine, but if I can’t play with you … I’ll lose it, Pat, I swear to god. And if you come out that’ll be fucking it, it’ll be over, and I...” He trails off, face haunted.

Pat can’t help himself. “What about Tati?” he asks, a taunt edging his tone. “She can’t help you keep it together?” He hates himself a little for it, but he hates Jonny way, way more, so he figures it works out.

Jonny slashes at the air impatiently. “Fuck off about shit you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “Just fucking … _please_ don’t do this.”

Pat shakes his head. He hadn’t known what Jonny was telling himself to make all this more bearable, but now that he’s heard it it’s an even bigger load of shit than he expected. Not that he thinks Jonny’s lying – he’s sure Jonny means it. But it’s still a load of shit. Jonny left Pat because Jonny couldn’t deal with what it meant to be with him. Jonny left Pat because Jonny was too fucking scared. But mostly, Jonny left Pat because he hated all the parts of himself that loved Pat, was scared shitless of them, and couldn’t envision a universe where everyone didn’t hate all of that as much as he did. 

“Just leave, Jonny,” Pat says quietly.

Jonny’s face crumbles, which Pat hadn’t known faces could do. He leaves. Pat doesn’t move from the couch for a very long time.

* * *

The phone call with Brisson goes better than Pat expects. He doesn’t mince words, explaining what he wants to do in very short sentences. There’s a long silence, but Brisson’s first question is reassuringly professional: “Is there some pissed-off ex out there whose story you’re trying to get ahead of? Be honest with me, Patrick. I can’t do my job if you don’t let me.”

Pat’s already laughing, though, at the image of Jonny as an angry ex-boyfriend. He’s laughing so hard tears are coming. “Fuck no,” he finally manages to gasp out. “Jesus, Pat. No.”

Brisson’s quiet again for a moment before saying, “Why now?”

Pat shrugs. “It’s something that’s important to me and it seemed like a good time, from a publicity standpoint. If it … if it goes badly,” he’s forcing himself to say it since it could be a real possibility, “it’ll be a lot harder for them to justify trading me. They’ll look homophobic. The stakes are pretty good.”

Brisson hmm’s thoughtfully. “You’re right about that,” he finally says. “How do you want to do it?”

Pat exhales and feels like a building’s been taken off his shoulders. He’s thought about this, can’t get the sound of Jonny saying _I don’t give a fuck about You Can Play_ out of his head, and says, “I thought maybe a You Can Play commercial? I don’t … I mean I’ll probably have to do some kind of interview or something, after, but that’s not how I want to come out. It’s …” He’s reaching for words to explain without saying _this has never been hard for me and then my heart got broken by someone who it’s really hard for and I can’t act like it’s been something it’s not_. Finally, he lands on, “I just don’t wanna pull too much focus.”

Brisson snorts but agrees to Pat’s terms. A week later they’re sitting down with management. 

Pat doesn’t give too much of a fuck how it goes – he knows what he’s doing for this team, knows what it could cost them to look blatantly homophobic, and is willing to lay all that out if he has to – and he’s expecting it when Bowman leans forward, always so paternal where Pat is concerned, and says, “I understand this is important to you, son, but do you really think this is the best time in your career to get so personal? In the middle of the season?” 

Brisson cuts in before Patrick can answer, saying, “This has nothing to do with Pat’s play, Stan.” 

Bowman looks like he’s about to say more, but Pat’s pleasantly surprised when Coach Q leans forward and says, “Patrick, for my money, I don’t give a fuck if you’ve got guys lined up back to back Monday through Friday. You and Toews are the heart and soul of this team. I’m fine with you doing whatever you need to do as long as nothing changes in your play.” 

After that, no one else has much of a choice but to grunt assents and say the right tolerant things. Pat doesn’t know who means them and he doesn’t care. He thinks the whole thing is over and he’s getting up to leave when Q says, “Patrick.” 

Pat looks at him, and there’s warmth in his face. 

“I was just wondering when you planned to tell the team.”

Pat runs a hand over his head and shifts uncomfortably. “I, um. I hadn’t thought about it,” he says, which is true. Every time he thinks about it he sort of wants to puke, so he’s been avoiding thinking about it.

“You can’t let them find out through the grapevine,” Q says. “I can’t think of a faster way to piss ‘em off. I’ll give you five minutes at the end of the next team meeting.” He nods. His moustache looks decisive.

Pat nods back. And that’s that.

* * *

He knows what he’s going to say but he doesn’t get out of his chair. He doesn’t look at anyone. He hadn’t realized how fucking terrifying this would be. It’s nothing like coming out to his parents or his sisters or the handful of friends he told when he was 15 and he is realizing that he has no fucking clue how this is going to go. He wants to make something up. He wishes he’d tried this one-on-one a few times before telling a roomful of guys he has to work with every day all at the same time. 

He has to start talking.

“I wanted to tell you guys,” and his voice cracks and he gulps some water. “I wanted to tell you,” he starts again. “I’m shooting a spot for You Can Play. And. I’m going to come out. In it.”

He’s pretty sure the room is dead silent but he can’t actually hear anything over his own heartbeat until, “Peeks.”

It’s Sharpy. Of course it’s Sharpy. “Yeah.”

“Come out,” he’s saying, and he sounds so fucking gentle Pat thinks he might cry. “You’re … gay?”

Pat thinks he’s probably visible from space, he’s blushing so fucking hard. He’s glowing through the roof of the UC and making a tiny red dot off the coast of Lake Michigan. “Yeah.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off the floor yet. His hands are shaking and his stomach feels fucking awful. _This_ is awful. This was a terrible idea. Jonny was right. Jonny was right. Jonny was –

“Okay,” he hears, and he doesn’t look up but he hears a chair scratching the floor and footsteps coming towards him. Out of his peripheral vision he sees Sharpy coming over and crouching in the aisle next to him, and then he’s being pulled into a hug so tight he can’t actually feel anything other than the arms crushing him and he’s so so fucking glad he doesn’t have to look at anything except Sharpy’s shoulder right now. 

“That’s fine,” Sharpy says, and his voice is much louder, and not so gentle. “You’re fine. We support you one hundred percent.” His voice sounds like it’s got actual steel in it. When he lets Patrick go, he ducks his head and grabs the back of Pat’s neck and shakes him lightly, getting Pat to meet his eyes. “You’re _fine_ ,” he says softly, words meant just for Pat. Sharpy lets go, but he doesn’t move away.

The silence isn’t so much getting awkward as settling into a nice awkward groove when Q steps forward and says, “Okay boys. Dismissed.” Pat hears chairs moving around him, collects fist bumps and kind words from a few of the guys – at least no one’s saying anything shitty, not that he can hear – but he doesn’t leave his seat. Can’t, yet. Sharpy’s still next to him, and neither of them move until Pat hears the door close for the last time. He sags abruptly and lifts his eyes, ready to talk to Sharpy, but the first thing he sees is Jonny, who he didn’t know was still in the room and who looks absolutely fucking stricken.

Sharpy looks between the two of them, steps back, and says, “Peeks, I’ll wait for you outside.” He ruffles Pat’s hair and heads out, leaving Pat and Jonny alone.

Pat can’t take his eyes off Jonny’s face. It’s Jonny who breaks first, choking out, “You actually did it.”

Pat nods. “We’re filming next week.” 

Jonny says nothing. Pat continues to stare. 

Finally, abruptly, Jonny says, “Tatiana. She left me last night.”

Pat reaches for his wherewithal and finds enough to say, “I’m sorry.”

Jonny lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. Smiles with no pleasure and says, “Said she didn’t sign up to be a beard for a repressed faggot.”

Pat’s eyes widen, and Jonny laughs. It sounds terrible. “Yeah,” he says. “We were drinking. A lot. We were drinking a lot and I … wasn’t being careful. I know how to be careful and I wasn’t being careful. I just kept thinking about you saying you were gonna come out, and I thought …” Jonny’s shoulders slump. “I don’t know what I thought.” He shakes his head a little. “Anyway. She made some joke about sucking cock, and then …. you know, we were having a good time, and I was _so_ drunk. And I like her. I really like her. So _I_ said something about sucking cock. And, uh, once she got over the shock – ” Pat’s never seen anyone’s face so bitter – “she slapped me across the face.” Jonny indicates his cheekbone, which does actually have a small bruise on it. Pat’s so used to seeing bruises on Jonny that he hadn’t thought anything of it. “That’s from her ring,” Jonny says. “Then she told me I was a fucking liar who used her, asked how many guys I cheated on her with, and said I probably didn’t even like women which would explain why I was so bad in bed.”

Pat can’t say a word. Jonny stand up, kicks his chair back, wipes his hands on his jeans. “So this isn’t how it always goes,” he says, and walks out. 

* * *

Nothing changes, exactly, not in the ways Patrick has suddenly come to fear. Some of the guys are more careful in how they talk and move, changing faster and spending a lot less time naked, but as far as he knows no one’s calling him names or fucking with his shit or anything. He’s quietly grateful for Sharpy, who’s stalking around the locker room like some sort of guardian lunatic and basically shooting death rays out of his eyes. Pat knows some of the guys are pissed that he “brought his personal life into things” - Seabs even tried to take him aside, asking him if he was sure he wanted to do this in the middle of such a fantastic season; Pat had babbled something and run away as quickly as possible - but compared to what it could be … Pat’s grateful. 

He mostly tries not to look at Jonny. Jonny hasn’t looked at him off the ice since he walked out of the meeting room.

* * *

“It’s pretty simple.” The woman’s name is Keiana and he thinks she’s a producer of some kind. She has an Afro and is wearing a chunky necklace. Patrick finds it helps to focus on small details when his heart’s beating so hard he can feel it in his fingertips. She hands him a copy of the script he finalized over the phone earlier this week. “Just look straight into the camera and say exactly what’s written here.” 

Patrick nods. Keiana smiles and pats him on the shoulder. He knows it’s supposed to be reassuring. “Are you nervous?” she asks. “Don’t be. It’ll be fine, you’ve done this sort of thing a million times.”

Patrick tries to smile back at her. He’s not sure what expression happens on his face, but he’s pretty sure it’s not a smile. “I’ve never done this before,” he says, honestly. 

She squeezes his shoulder and says, “Just what it says on the paper. You’ll be fine.”

He spends a few minutes reviewing the script, and yup, just as douchey as he remembers. He’d tried to object, but they’d had a million reasons why it was the right direction to go in, and fighting about it was not on the list of shit Patrick had energy for at that point. Finally he looks up and nods at the people sitting behind the camera. An Indian guy in a blue t-shirt and a headset calls for quiet, counts back from 3, then gives Patrick the thumbs up. 

He closes his eyes. He pictures Jonny during those weeks before everything went to hell: Jonny in bed with him, smiling, tired and so, so happy. Remembers what it felt like to be the center of Jonny’s orbit. Remembers when that collapsed, their wrenching, stupid last night together. If he doesn’t remember it, none of this matters.

He pastes on his press smile and begins: “Hi, my name is Patrick Kane and I play right wing for the Chicago Blackhawks. I’m a number one draft pick, winner of the Calder and Conn Smythe trophies, helped my team to two Stanley Cups, and I’m gay…”


End file.
